by Josie Brown
SERE stands for survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. It is the acronym for a US military program in which military personnel, private military contractors and Department of Defense employees are trained in survival skills as well as evading capture. Most of those who take this course are either military aircrew or special ops personnel who are deemed a high risk for capture.
SERE is not a weekend at Bernie’s. Nor is it a gal pal getaway. There are no bromances involved, and certainly no sex on the beach.
Although, if you’re in the middle of the woods and it’s pouring rain and the temperature drops below forty degrees, you won’t object to snuggling in the fetal position with two of your teammates. In fact, for once in your life you may insist on being the ham in a sandwich threesome.
Jack hadn’t planned on stopping by the US Navy's Training Site in Warner Springs, California but as it happened, he discovered that one of its officers, Dan Forthye, recently had a run-in with Pinky Ring.
He was told to report first to the base commander, Captain Raymond Nichols, who was watching an extreme interrogation exercise. He’d never met Captain Nichols, but knew his reputation as an exceptional covert-ops instructor, especially in SERE skills.
Jack was led to a cinder block building on the outskirts of the base.
The room in which they were standing was small, and had a two-way mirror that looked into a larger room where a mock water boarding interrogation was in session.
The flashing strobe lights in the darkened room made it difficult to see what exactly was going on. Despite this, and the fact that the tortured candidate’s head was covered with a black burlap bag and arms and legs were trussed firmly to a board slanted downward, he could tell the person was a woman. Sure, she was broad-shouldered, lean and like everyone else attending Warner Springs, she more than likely had shed all excess body fat within the first four weeks. In truth, the giveaway was more obvious: she had a great set of knockers.
Unfortunately for her, this didn’t throw her torturers off their game.
In fact, it seemed to make them even more determined to break her.
She refused to make it easy for them. Granted, her body tensed up, if only slightly and for a mere second, whenever the head of the board was tilted downward in anticipation of the water that would soon drench the cloth over her face.
When it came down on her, it was fierce and steady, along with the taunts and threats from her torturers.
No matter how loud the audio loop of crying babies ricocheted through the room, or how hair-raising her captors’ shouts and jibes, the captive went Zen on them.
No screaming, let alone whimpering or crying.
It was almost as if she were asleep.
Eventually, she succumbed to the need to take in air. Considering the low angle of her head, it was inevitable that she’d suck in so much water through her nose and her mouth that she’d be forced to cough in an attempt to stop the drowning sensation.
Instead, she drew the water up into her lungs—
Until she blacked out.
“Damn it!” growled one of her torturers. “That’s the fourth time the bitch has passed out on us.” Frustrated as to what should be their next move, he glanced over at the mirror.
Raymond tapped it with his knuckles.
The interrogators exchanged glum glances before releasing the woman’s bindings and pulling the sack off her head.
It took a moment for Jack to realize the woman was Donna Stone.
“Shit,” he murmured.
Whereas most of Donna’s training was taking place at the Farm, other facilities around the country were better equipped to conduct Level C SERE courses, which simulated high-risk capture behind enemy lines.
Considering its proximity to LA, I should have figured Ryan would make sure she was sent here, he thought.
Raymond shook his head in awe. “You can say that again. This one is a real kamikaze. This is the last of seventeen counter-resistance tests, and so far she’s aced every one. Her spy craft skills are incredible, too—and innate, from what I can tell. As for languages, her Spanish and French are more than passable. Her German needs a little work. Had a tough time with Arabic, but who doesn’t? And boy, can she shoot.”
Having seen her in action, Jack could only nod in agreement.
Her interrogators slapped her until she regained consciousness, at which point she rolled off the board and onto all fours in order to choke out the rest of the water in her lungs.
When her heaving stopped, one of her interrogators offered his hand to get her on her feet.
She smiled up at him, but rose on her own. When she was fully erect, she turned to the mirror.
She winked.
Jack’s heart leaped in his chest. For a moment, he thought she’d seen him.
Even if she had, she wouldn’t know him, he reasoned.
Raymond was flipping through the file folder in his hand. It had Donna’s name on it. “Hey, I see here that she’s one of your agents—and that you cleared her for Level C.” He raised a brow. “So, are you two close?”
Jack knew what he was really asking. Ha, if only. He tried to keep from frowning. “In fact, we’ve never met.”
Raymond looked down at the file, as if scrutinizing some of Jack’s chicken scratch for enlightenment on Donna. The slight smirk on his lips was a dead giveaway as to what he was really thinking: What’s wrong with this guy?
Jack shrugged. “My job wasn’t to get up close and personal. In fact, it was the exact opposite. But yes, she passed on our end, with flying colors.”
Raymond nodded. “Well, you certainly read her right. She’d survive Armageddon.”
“By that, I presume she did well during the survival course.”
“I’ll say! You’ll get a kick out of what her instructors have to say when the file comes back your way.” Raymond lifted the file in his hand. “She was the first to snare a squirrel. Then she fricasseed it! By all accounts, it was a hell of a feast, what with the herbs and edible plants she foraged up. And she was the only one on her team who wasn’t grossed out at the thought of using a tampon as a survival tool. She took the cotton fiber for fire tinder and for water filtration, and used the wick for a pinesap candle. She even remembered to use the wrapper to keep their matches dry.” He smiled. “Not only that, but she was the last one to emerge from her three days in solitary survival. Trust me, she was the only one who looked as if she’d come back from a spa weekend.” Raymond chuckled. “Okay, maybe not exactly relaxed and refreshed. The years she spent as a Scouts’ den mother really paid off.”
“And yet she played rough when it was her turn to interrogate?”
Raymond’s smile faded. “That’s putting it mildly. Let me put it this way—after the results of her stint as a mock captor, I’d hate to be on her hit list.”
“Why is that?”
“Usually, it’s a three-day assignment. We took her off interrogation after the very first day—when she broke four candidates.”
Jack frowned. “Was she being retaliatory?”
“No. I mean sure, she got the usual catcalls. But if you’re asking if she was Tailhooked, no.” Raymond shook his head. “Jack, you know how competitive these candidates can be. It’s every man for himself—or woman. Not exactly kindergarten. Kumbaya is done back home, in their respective units.”
In regard to Donna, that was a problem. By definition, assassins didn’t work in cliques. Sure, certain missions were collaborations in which various agents worked their specialties. Apparently, Raymond recognized the fact that she was a woman of many talents.
That’s exactly the point, Jack thought. She’s not supposed to be anywhere but in cozy lazy little Hilldale.
Jack’s eyes dropped to the manila folder. “I presume this includes a psych evaluation, too.”
“Yes. When the evaluator asked her the typical questions as to how she’s able to keep her cool, you know what she told him? That everything she sees here is something she’s dealt with be
fore—not on any battlefield, but as a mom. To her, covert ops are all fun and games—no different, really, than those you play with children. ‘Isn’t that what men are anyway, scared little boys, playing at war?’ No one can get to her but her kids. And saving her kids is what drives her. The shrink wrote that she sees her time here as a real-life version of ‘Survivor.’ She wants to be the last man standing.” Raymond frowned. “He suggested we take her off the assignment if we wanted to have a graduating class bigger than one—her.”
Which brought Jack to a question he was loath to ask. “Did she use any form of…coercion?”
They both knew he meant sex.
Raymond winced. “No, she didn’t have to. With two of the guys, she stuck to the drill. With the third guy, she went all mommy dearest on his ass. She talked him onto the ledge by hitting on his irrational fears, then she sprinkled his mask as if she was blessing him with holy water. The dude felt those few drops and squealed like a piggy.” Raymond rolled his eyes. “A State Department wonk. Frankly, I think the dude was a little disappointed that she didn’t beat it out of him. I guess he thought this was some sort of fantasy spy camp or something.”
“So, one of the broken candidates was a woman? How did that go?”
“Stone never even dampened the woman’s mask. She just let the wailing baby soundtrack do the dirty work. Then she talked about what people really want in life, and how those who join covert-ops look to fill a hole inside themselves. She claimed she knew firsthand, and told the candidate not to follow in her footsteps. She asked the captive why she felt the need to be torn down by someone who didn’t give a damn about her, only to be made into the image of someone who’d be used and abused by her own government. Then she described the process of drowning, and why it’s a quicker way out of someone’s perceived problems. Stone gave her a chance to ‘reassess the situation.’ That’s how she put it. The captive reassessed, all right. Right after she left the Farm, she resigned from the State Department. In her exit interview, she claimed she was finally going to accept her boyfriend’s proposal of marriage, make babies, and write romantic suspense novels.”
Jack wondered, should Donna get the opportunity to avenge her husband’s death, could she ever go back to the life of a suburban mom? For her sake, he hoped so, but he doubted it.
“We thought getting a taste of her own medicine would do the trick,” Raymond continued. “We have ways of anticipating a benign response, and getting around it. As you see here, she knew what to expect and flipped it.”
Jack thought, Why am I not surprised?
He left a benign smile on his head as he held out his hand to take his leave. “Thanks for your time and insights, Captain. Now, if you can tell me where I might find Captain Forsythe, I’ll be on my way.”
Raymond nodded out the door. “Father Forsythe is our chaplain now. A service is in session, but it should be ending soon. You’ll find the chapel two blocks east, four doors down, on the right.” He smirked. “Are you sure you don’t you want to stick around to see how she handles the escape trials? That should be a ‘come to Jesus’ moment’ for someone, if not her.”
Jack shook his head. The thought of watching any more of Donna’s transition into an assassin was something he couldn’t stomach.
He blamed himself for it.
Besides, he knew her progress was being recorded in the dossier that would follow her back to Acme. Someday, he would access it. No time soon, though. Seeing what she’d become hurt too much.
He felt guilty for having played such a big role in her life. It certainly wasn’t the role he would have chosen if they could have met under other circumstances.
The way it looked now, they’d never meet at all.
A service was going on in the chapel.
Jack waited the forty minutes, until it was over. It took another fifteen minutes for everyone to clear out. When he was certain it was empty, he entered.
To the left of the altar and just beyond a confessional booth was a door marked CHAPLAIN.
Jack knocked. It was opened by a broad-shouldered man who was around Jack’s age. His deep tan made his blue eye even more brilliant.
The other eye was covered with a patch.
After the men shook hands, Jack handed Dan Forsythe a photo of Pinky Ring, “I think we had a run-in with the same guy. What can you tell me about him?”
Dan looked down at the photo, and winced. “Four years ago, I was assigned to Berlin, which is where I ran into this man.” He pointed to his collar. “I wasn’t wearing this back then. In fact, I was in deep cover, investigating a leak in our security there. I was introduced to him by one of our boys who wasn’t feeling appreciated and had an itch to freelance. This man was his handler. He works for some sort of freelance agency that trolls for soldiers of fortune willing to do exterminations for the organization’s clients—mostly rogue terrorist cells, and unfriendly governments.”
“How did your meeting go?”
Dan flipped up the eye patch to reveal a pulpy hole.
He shrugged. “When I thought about it afterward, it reminded me of a lamb going to slaughter. They let me play out my spiel, but trust me, they had me pegged. I don’t know what you have on this group—the Quorum—but whatever it is, I hope it’s more than what they have on us.”
If only you knew, Jack thought.
He shook the captain’s hand, and took his leave.
The last thing Jack expected was to see Donna, twelve feet in front of him.
He froze.
She was in a pew, kneeling.
Jack thanked God her eyes were closed, in prayer.
When he took a step forward, a floorboard creaked.
Instinctively, she stirred.
Jack leaped into the confessional, closing the door behind him.
Please, don’t let her suspect I’m here.
He was on the priest’s side, so odds were his prayer would be answered.
He waited five minutes. He heard nothing.
Dead silence.
He was just about to leave when the door on the other side of the confessional opened. Through the scrim between the two booths, he could faintly make out Donna’s features.
Oh…hell.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she murmured.
“Um…how long since your last confession?” He wasn’t Catholic, but he’d heard that in a movie, so he went with it.
She gave a low chuckle. “Hey, I’m not even Catholic but you’re the only game in town.” She paused. “You see, Father, I feel as if I’ve lost a big piece of me, somewhere along the way.” Her words were barely a whisper. “I guess it’s why I’m here.”
“I see.” He kept his voice at a low register. “Don’t feel guilty about having second thoughts. Not everyone is cut out to be an…an—”
“Assassin.” She said the word as easily as if she were saying flower. “Father, we both know every human has a dark side. We tamp it down. Sometimes we lose.” She was choking on her words. “But have I lost the fight, Father? Have I lost my soul? It feels so good…to know I’m now prepared to avenge Carl.”
Jack let her sob until finally she was silent. “This urge to avenge your…your loved one—I swear to you, it isn’t healthy.”
“You’re wrong! When I kill, it’ll be for Carl. Don’t you see? It will be my redemption! Because every mission will put me one step closer to moving on!”
“No, you’re wrong!” he hissed. “Others can do it. Others can make them…make them pay.”
She shook her head. “Others? What ‘other’? No one hurts like I do! No one misses him more than me. No ‘other’ bore his children, or listens to their sobs at night, when they try to remember him.” She wiped her face with her hand. “But I remember him.” The iciness in her voice sent a shiver down Jack’s back. “So you see, it has to be me. You know it, and I know it. So let’s not pretend otherwise.”
She was right. There would be no more pretending—on his part, anyway.
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She bowed her head. “What is my penance, Father?”
It’s not yours to pay, he thought. It’s mine.
“Your turmoil isn’t going to be solved with a few Hail Marys. Please do some more soul searching. Before it’s…too late.”
She nodded.
He saw her rise from the bench. The curtain moved, indicating she was out of the booth. He listened for her footstep and then the door shutting behind her.
But of course, it was already too late.
There was nothing left he could do for her but pray.
Or take down the Quorum himself.
The latter was a given, but he knew the former would come into play along the way as well.
TWO YEARS LATER
Chapter 21
The Hit
A hit is an assassination, pure and simple.
No, take that back: there is nothing pure about killing someone. A hit by any other name—assassination, extermination, liquidation, termination, murder, homicide, slaying, the old F3 (find, fix, and finish)—stains the soul.
And there’s nothing simple about killing someone. Properly done, it takes planning, sometimes months at a time. And no matter how many details are presumed covered, there’s always some bit of minutiae that isn’t considered, only to rear its ugly head when it’s time to pull the trigger.
Afterward, the hit man—or woman—is never the same. The emotional scar tissue around the heart grows thicker with each hit.
But the heart is still in there, somewhere.
You just have to be brave enough and persistent enough to find it.
The prisoner, a former Serbian general known by the name of Ratko Zoran, insisted on being called doctor, in deference to his pre-war occupation. Jack readily accommodated his request: prior to taking a cattle prod to the good doctor’s genitals.
Using the man’s professional title and in a respectful tone, he asked for the name of Zoran’s Russian contact in the harvesting of human organs from the prisoners under his control during the Bosnian War.
